


Gifts

by marzipan (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, mythology AU, slight Discworld references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 02:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14126469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/marzipan
Summary: There's that comic where Life sends Death this tortoise and the caption is about how Life keeps sending Death gifts and Death keeps every single one, and I can't quite remember what it is, but this is based on that.Mycroft is Life here (sort of) and Jim is Death (sort of)





	1. Prologue

They say there was a time that both man and beast lived for what felt like forever, easily reaching 500 or 600 years of age as history stretched on.

 

And then around that time, Life and Death rose from the ether, and took up positions at either end of the stage that makes up the world.

 

Life could only ever catch a glimpse of Death, and vice-versa, but the constant presence turned from curiosity to solace as the years went by.

 

Then, one day, Life decided he would send a gift.

 

Flowers, his favorite bright yellow blooms, bunched together and wrapped in one large, long leaf. Left to wilt and wither, detached from their nursing mother earth, and left to dry until the life leached out of them. Left to die.

 

Life saw Death with the flowers, but there was no reply.

 

Years went on by, and Life sent more. 

 

Beautiful birds, a prideful lion, a pair of lovers, and so on and so forth.

 

And he never got a reply.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Fourteen hundred years later, Life and Death are different entirely different matters.

 

Life is a bustling mess of crispy, crackling, oozing, sparking, shining, growing _energy_. Death, too, came in droves and piles and senseless ones and history-altering ones and just as many forgotten as remembered.

 

All this required power and order and form.

 

Life was no longer a single _entity_ so much as it was a giant maze of bureaucracy with administrators for each geographic region over a certain population threshold, with documents and reports to files and censuses to take.

 

Death, then, was a massive machine with not just a single overseer. Much happens to people in life, but frankly, not much happens to them in death. There are very few forms to fill out, as such.

 

London, for instance, is such a bustling city (with _such_ an active real estate market) that it required its own _Office_ of Life (whereas it only required one Overseer of Death, unlike, say, a war zone where the entity resources may be reversed).

 

And on one uncharacteristically sunny Autumn day, Mycroft is made Manager of London.

 

The fact that a new appointment made is not surprising, as the last Manager had held the post for over a century. But the fact that _Mycroft_ was made Manager is a little surprising, because Mycroft, stoic and quiet  and _young_ as he is, is not exactly the poster boy for Life.

 

But, sure there was the light and the holiness and the vivacity of the whole thing. One mustn't forget there is also numbers and bookkeeping and records.

 

And Mycroft has certainly got a good head for numbers, so he gets promoted record-breakingly quick, and to those who have worked closely with him, it’s not much of a surprise.

 

“First time in history we’ve got a Manager of a big city like London who’s under two centuries old!” Bill tells him with a slap on his arm.

 

Mycroft nods and smiles.

 

-

 

The first time Mycroft meets Death (designation: London), it’s nothing he’s prepared for.

 

They’re in the morgue, of all places, because a dead man (slipped, fell, hit his head) decided to come back to life, but only briefly, because the handover for the title of Manager did not come without some ceremony and thus delayed the passing of this poor soul, who thought perhaps maybe the circumstances were mistaken and he might be allowed back on the other side.

 

Anyway, it was the first death since Mycroft took office, and he wanted to be personally present for the hand-off out of some sense of honor and duty.

 

He’s standing beside the dead man’s embalming table in the empty room when someone appears right next to him without notice. Mycroft startles.

 

“Ohh, you’re the new man in charge, arencha?” asks a slight, dark man with big, curious eyes like the endless night. Mycroft’s got several inches on him. He’s tiny, almost, when you really compare them. But no less formidable for it.

 

“Death, that’s me,” he confirms. “Hiiii.”

 

Mycroft nods a polite greeting.

 

“I hope to get along well,” he replies. Death just gives him a curious smile.

 

-

 

“Yeah, he’s a weird one, that Death,” Bill tells Mycroft later. “Enjoys his job a bit too much.”

 

Mycroft wonders what that even means.

 

-

 

The second time they meet is not long later, at the A&E.

 

“Oh it’s you again,” Death tells him as he steps into the room, Mycroft by the bedside of a pedestrian who was struck by a cab.

 

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft says. “Who else would it be?”

 

Death slows his approaching steps.

 

“Weeelll, you guys have an army, but I’m all alone,” he responds.

 

“Hm,” Mycroft says, not understanding. Then he looks at the recently deceased.

 

“This one lived as a Catholic, but doesn’t really actually believe in an afterlife,” Mycroft explains.

 

“Oh! That makes it easy then, barely anything to do,” Death responds.

 

Mycroft nods his goodbye, and then takes off.

 

-

 

“This one’s Jewish, and believes in heaven and hell.”

 

“Hm. Bit of work, then. Which one did he think he would end up in?”

 

“He had no idea, he was hoping one of us would figure it out.”

 

“Indecisive! Ah, well, I can relate. What do you think, then, with all your records and files?”

 

“....a middle ground would be suitable.”

 

“Ah, another indecisive one.”

 

“He...also believed that in the afterlife, Moses would teach all peoples the Torah.”

 

“A sort of Sunday school for eternity?”

 

“I don’t think that’s how it works. There is a place for such people, yes? The ones who believe in the afterlife but aren't sure what it is.”

 

“Yes, yes, I’m only kidding with you.”

 

-

 

“So.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“This one prayed _really_ hard for an eternity with fields of clover and puppies.”

 

“Well, I hope they’re not allergic.”

 

“I am sure they would have written out their allergies if they had them, in their imagined eternity.”

 

“Who knows? Some people have very realistic imaginations.”

 

-

 

“Hell. This one's going straight to hell.”

 

“Oh, definitely.”

 

-

 

Weeks later, it occurs to Mycroft he doesn’t know Death’s name. So he asks.

 

He looks contemplative, tilts his head and thinks.

 

“You can call me Jim,” he finally replies. “And yours?”

 

“Mycroft.”

 

“Seriously?” he, Jim, responds with a laugh. “Where do they even find you guys.”

 

-

 

They’re amicable enough, and Mycroft finds himself looking forward to the brief meetings and ghostly touches and it occurs to him that perhaps _he_ is enjoying his job too much.

 

-

 

“You know,” Bill tells him about a year in, “You don’t have to hand deliver each soul _personally_.”

 

Mycroft blinks at him, and straightens his collar.

 

“We’re no less efficient for it,” he responds, unsure what Bill is trying to say.

 

“No, no, I didn’t mean to imply any such thing,” Bill says quickly.

 

-

 

Every manager gets an allotted number of Miracles.

 

In the first decade Mycroft has held office, he has never used a single one.

 

This is unusual, not in the infrequency, but the fact that he uses his first one near his ten-year mark. Most managers either startle at their first gruesome or tragic death and end up very quickly using up their first Miracle, or steadfastly hold to the notion that it is not their job to interfere willy-nilly, and go several decades before realizing they have so much to give near the end of their terms.

 

And then, when it finally happens for Mycroft, it is not even anyone that noteworthy.

 

It’s a street busker.

 

A violinist of superb talent.

 

Mycroft wonders what his story is. A concert musician who fell out with society? A child prodigy who somehow lost everything through tragedy?

 

He never bothers to look up the man’s records, fearing that would kill the magic.

 

Instead, he watches him switch tunes at the drop of a hat instead, playing exactly what it is his down and out passersby need to hear.

 

The dejected detective inspector facing a divorce smiles and thinks of more optimistic times, hearing an arrangement of a jazz piece that was on the radio the day he got his promotion.

 

The single mother trying to stretch her paycheck to the end of the week with two crying babies hears a dance tune that never fails to put a spring in her step and she thinks, I did it last week, I did it the week before, and I can do it again.

 

A girl who just broke up, who just got dumped, hears not an empowering anthem, a ballad of solitude, because that isn’t what she needs. No, she gets sweet love songs that tell her she didn’t love for naught, that her feelings need not be invalidated now that the relationship is over, and that she and her estranged partner are not the same.

 

The army vet wandering the streets so late it’s nearly early gets a lullaby.

 

It all makes Mycroft’s route through the square (the offices are “located” in the park) that much more pleasant.

 

Everyone takes a day off every now and then, but not him, not ever (not Mycroft, either).

 

But then one day, he isn’t there.

 

For three days, he isn’t there.

 

Four.

 

Mycroft wanders the city a bit, on the fifth day. He ends up finding the violinist passed out in an alley. Malnourished, dehydrated, overdosed. He’s about to die, Mycroft realizes. That’s why he was drawn into this alley.

 

He’s nearly done reciting the Words when Jim is there, a smile on his lips and greeting at the ready. He halts midstep, seeing what Mycroft is doing, and his expression shutters.

 

His expression is still impassive when he asks, curious, “Why won’t you give him to me?”

 

Mycroft hesitates.

 

He can’t say. He doesn’t know how.

 

“I have a hunch he’s not finished with life yet,” he finally replies. It’s a lame excuse, and so obviously a lie that he doesn’t disparage Jim for blinking away with so much as a goodbye.

 

Then the paramedics arrive. The violinist’s parents get in touch. He’s sent to rehab. Mycroft discovers his name is Sherlock Holmes.

 

He hopes for the best.

 

-

 

Things continue as usual for the next several months. Then, on one uncharacteristically sunny Autumn afternoon, an elderly woman suffers a heart attack at a bus stop and is declared dead on scene when the paramedics arrive. Mycroft is present, but something catches his eye and he turns to see the violinist having a late lunch (?) at the diner across the street, watching the scene with a sad but resigned expression.

 

Jim catches him watching and nods toward the man.

 

“Why wouldn’t you give him to me? You never said,” Jim asks.

 

Mycroft hesitates.

 

"He reminds me of someone," he finally answers.

 

-

 

Jim won’t speak to him the next time. Or the next.

 

He doesn’t speak to him for nearly a year.

 

-

 

Then, Sherlock Holmes throws himself off of a building. They say he went mad.

 

Mycroft doesn’t show up for the handover himself, but instead sends someone else from the office.

 

When the time comes a week later, a car accident, two wounded and one dead, he finds he can’t bring himself to get up from his desk, to leave the neat papers and letters behind and go out into the world again. A world without music.

 

He sends someone else.

 

He keeps sending someone else, for nearly a year.

 

Anthea becomes something of a second in command over those months, and becomes quite practiced in the art and craft of it all. Mycroft is very pleased, because although the two of them are nothing alike, she also does the job, and does it well.

 

It’s an uncharacteristically sunny Autumn afternoon when she throws his curtains open and leans on the wall beside the window.

 

“It’s a beautiful day,” she says.

 

“Hm,” Mycroft replies, not looking up from his papers.

 

“You should take a walk,” she says. “Probably won’t get this kind of weather for another nine months.”

 

“Mm, yes,” he replies absent-mindedly.

 

Anthea rolls her eyes and walks over to the door. He thinks she’s about to leave, but she comes back with his suit jacket and shoves it under his nose.

 

“Come on, get up now,” she says.

 

He gives her a very exasperated look, and she doesn’t relent one bit.

 

WIth a sigh, Mycroft takes the jacket and puts down the pen.

 

-

 

He takes his stroll through the park and feels thankful that his venture into the corporeal plane is not for work this time.

 

And then he halts mid-step as he hears a tune.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, by the entrance of the square, he can see a street violinist playing a familiar tune.

 

Mycroft knows his classical repertoire, and knows this is not any known composer. It is an improvised piece his violinist used to play, when no one was lingering, and he never thought he would hear it again.

 

He drifts closer and can’t believe his eyes, can’t believe it’s the same violinist he’s seeing, and takes a nearby seat on a park bench.

 

Soundlessly, weightlessly, Death appears beside him, taking up a seat on the bench.

 

They listen without words.

 

Finally, when the violinist finishes, and picks up a jaunty Haydn piece instead, he turns to Jim.

 

“You gave him back,” he says, more a question than statement.

 

Jim shrugs.

 

“When he was here...with me, I mean,” Jim starts, then thinks about it, unsure how to explain. “He reminded me of someone, too.”


End file.
